


The Last Promise

by periwinklehawke



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Original Character Death(s), The Dales (Dragon Age), War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 05:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20402821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periwinklehawke/pseuds/periwinklehawke
Summary: The end of the journey towards reclaiming the Dales for the People is the end of the journey for Hanashel Lavellan.





	The Last Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little snippet that I've had in mind for years now, but never really had the nerve to put out until now.

Hanashel had felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck before it happened. The last one was still falling to the ground, grasping their neck to stymy the gushing wound, when she heard a noise coming closer and turned to face the next one, too late. Sunlight danced along the edge of the blade, blinding white on starlight silver like Eshadan’s hair spread across the pillow in the morning. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her heartbeat suddenly drowning out all other sound in the breath before the metal bit into her. Her blood splattered the scorched earth of the Dirthavaren, where it mixed with mud and waste and ash and the blood of her kin and enemies alike. Her arm fell, her staff with it, and she watched it tumble down, everything quiet and far away now. _Should’ve seen before—_

The soldier knocked her down first onto her back with a swift kick, the wind knocked out of her lungs. Stars danced before her eyes, her skull throbbed with pain and it lanced down her spine until there was nothing else. Everything was swimming, spiraling, and she couldn’t see anyone coming to help her. They had other enemies to kill, here in the thick of battle.

Creators, she was surrounded and _still_ dying alone.

The soldier muttered something in Orlesian. A curse, no doubt, some insult, as they advanced on her. But she didn’t care too much about what they had to say. She just needed to reach towards her belt for her dagger before the soldier could kill her.

There! The familiar pommel carved with the face of Elgar’nan, the old leather that fit so perfectly to her hands, worn smooth and soft but strong. How long had Eshadan spent making this to surprise her? He never gave her a straight answer. A week for skill, a year for dedication. She had always imagined him toiling away with Master Gavari hovering nearby, Eshadan’s long dark hair tied back but the stray strands clinging to his sweaty brow as he worked to make it perfect and just for her, to always keep her protected. Eshadan. Vhenan.

The soldier dropped to a knee beside her and grabbed onto the front of her armor to drag her up, their blade pressed against her throat. She smelled blood and wine on their sour breath as they barked in her face, perhaps to gloat over killing an old, old woman tired from killing _dozens_ of his kin.

More fool him, getting close. Her mana was gone, but Fang was still sharp.

The dagger unsheathed smoothly and silently as it ever did. She thrust upwards as hard as she could with the last of her strength, and her blade sunk deep in the underside of their jaw. A low gurgle in their throat. Their eyes bulged in their sockets. A heartbeat. Their arms fell limp to their side. Their weight started to press in on top of her. The light was leaving their eyes. The sun bounced off their helmet as their head started to droop down further onto her dagger. She pushed them to one side, and held firmly onto Fang so it would pull back out.

Her head fell back onto the ground as she clutched Fang to her chest. She was so tired, more tired than she remembered ever being. She stared up at the afternoon sky, and half listened to the fading sounds of the fight around her, the garbled sounds of death cries and curses and spells detonating. She caught glimpses of arrows and rocks, magical blasts and whatever else anyone could use. Humans passed her by, some threw down their weapons beside her. Her people rushed after them, parting around her like all the other dead.

A horn sounded. She heard people crying out. For a moment, she feared. Where was her family? Had they lost? She didn’t want any of them to die for nothing, no, no, no, _please_.

“_Enasalin! Tarasyl'nin’virelan ma halam!_”

Amalthea. Da’len. Bright spirit. Happy, alive, their voice ragged but drunk on triumph. They made it. Hanashel felt the hot tears trailing down on either side of her face, the first time since Eshadan had passed. She allowed herself this. Her heavy eyelids closed, the rest of her body went slack. _Home_.

She felt tree moss between her fingers, tasted honey. Home. Eshadan. Vhenan. Someone started singing. She felt hands cupping her face, gently, gently. She didn’t want to open her eyes. Just a few minutes more, only a few minutes and she’d be back on her feet. She just wanted a little rest. Tree moss and honey. Eshadan. Vhenan. It was a hot day, but she felt cold. Creators, she hated the cold. Give her summer evenings and a warm breeze, the hot earth under her feet as she chased wild children escaping their baths and medicine. She wanted the honey on a bit of bread. Eshadan. Vhenan. She wanted to tell him something. She wanted a blanket, to keep out the cold. She was so cold, so cold. She felt someone covering her, pressing something to her side—her arm, she couldn’t feel her arm. She needed to chew on elfroot. Mamae always told her to keep elfroot on her.

“Mamae?”

“Find the healers. Alert the rest of her family!”

Family. Ghivana. Vishani. Valaros. Amalthea. Artemis. Tyran. _Eshadan-vhenan_. Tree moss and honey. Children planting a thousand vhenadhals, a thousand crystal spires being raised over rivers of light. She hadn’t seen it before, but she could now. Hands on her face. Her hands on the hilt, Elgar’nan’s face pressing into her palm. _Home_. Promise? Promise. Eshadan on their bonding night, the love of her life silhouetted against moonlight pouring in through the small windows of their aravel. Their girls’ first cries. Her grandchildren playing in streams in spring. Tree moss and honey. Her first spell, the white-hot flash of lighting arcing in the air, the scream of an unlucky hunter. Someone kissed her brow. Eshadan? Vhenan.

“We need to cauterize it.”

“I don’t think that—”

“**_Just do it_**!”

_Hush, I can’t hear the song_.

She thought she knew what it was, whose voice that was. Hands on her face, tracing the lines, comforting her, tethering her. Creators, when did she get so wrinkly? Too much stress. _No, they’re perfect, always perfect_. Eshadan-vhenan. Too kind, too wonderful. _How could you leave me behind_? He hadn’t meant to. _Promise? Promise_.

Hot. Too hot. Hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_. She wanted to scream. Couldn’t. Prayed for strength, but she was so tired, Creators, she was too tired to be strong anymore. Tree moss and honey. Home. Family. Someone was singing. They were calling her from somewhere very far away. Did someone need her? Always. But she was so tired and so cold, and she wanted to sleep for a very long time. Couldn’t she just sleep in a little bit? Just this once?

“—healers are already tending who they can and—”

Her eyes cracked open. The sky was ablaze with the dying light of the day, the clouds maybe not clouds but plumes of smoke. A face, a bloodied face, a familiar face. Daughter. Eldest. Ghivana. Small hands that were no longer small, but warm and shaking against her brow, pouring healing magic into her to keep her alive. She wanted to say something. Nothing would work. The light was fading away.

_Ma garas mir renan, ara ma'athlan vhenas_. The song, the song. Tree moss and honey. Family. Home. Eshadan. Vhenan.

Promise?

_Promise_.


End file.
